


Subconscious

by perspi



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-14
Updated: 2009-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-02 17:46:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perspi/pseuds/perspi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hanging out with House can be hazardous to one's health. Especially if one is named Wilson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Subconscious

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a thank-you fic for . Also for the challenge.

"Ow! Ow ow ow."

"Wow, that didn't feel right."

"House, that was my _foot_!" Wilson was bent double in his chair, rubbing ineffectually at a mark on the top of his right shoe.

House leaned on his cane and watched as Wilson puffed out his cheeks with a long breath. "Sorry," he mumbled. "Didn't see your foot there."

"Tell me your leg took a _little_ of your weight." Wilson flexed his foot, testing the movement of his toes. "Ow."

"Well, it's your own damn fault," House said defensively. "Lotta people with disabilities in a hospital, you know. I'm just training you to keep your feet to yourself."

Wilson rolled his eyes, then stood up and waved House toward the cafeteria doors. As they limped together toward the elevators, Wilson said, "Thanks for hitting my right foot."

House glanced over and raised an eyebrow.

Wilson smirked. "At least this way people will think I'm just sympathy limping."

* * *

  


"Damn it!" House spat his mouthful of coffee back into his mug, then he gimped over and irritably _clunked_ the mug in the microwave. Slamming the door and punching at buttons, he muttered loudly, "What kind of idiot _turns off_ a coffeemaker?"

"The idiots who don't want to be responsible for burning down buildings," Chase replied as he came into the conference room with Wilson on his heels. Chase stopped at the whiteboard; Wilson continued over to the kitchenette and began rummaging in the cupboards. No one spoke for a long moment, until the microwave beeped.

"What's the news?" House asked. Wilson stood up next to House, thoughtfully chewing on a handful of animal crackers.

Chase had crossed off **RESPIRATORY DISTRESS** and added** LIVER FAILURE**. "Kid stole his friend's asthma meds; explains the respiratory distress. Liver function tests came back ugly."

House pulled the mug from the microwave. "What the hell does an ugly liver function test look like?" he asked as he turned toward Chase. He caught his hip on the cupboard and his upper body jerked as he tried to keep his balance. Both the mug and the hot coffee it contained hit Wilson full in the chest.

Wilson made a noise somewhere between a yelp and a girly scream just as House shouted, "Shit!" The empty mug landed on the carpet with a _thunk_.

Chase was the fastest to react. He grabbed Wilson's flailing wrists and steered him to sit in a chair. While he worked on removing Wilson's shirt and tie, he shouted, "House! Cold compress!" House, leaving his cane leaning against the cupboard, limped over to the sink to find towels.

Wilson was obviously trying to stay quiet as Chase gently peeled the soaked shirt from his shoulders. House had a brief glimpse of a disturbingly large angry pink splotch across Wilson's chest before Chase took the wet towels from him and covered the scald.

After a moment, Wilson leaned back against the table's edge and held the compress with one hand, waving Chase away with the other. He looked up at House and tried to smirk, but failed miserably. "Damn hot coffee."

House waved at Wilson's chest. "Lemme see."

"You should let it be for a minute," Chase said. House turned to him with a glare, and Chase muttered something about getting maintenance and a fresh shirt before disappearing out the door.

House pulled a chair closer to Wilson and waved again as he sat down. "Let me see."

Wilson sighed dramatically, knowing that House wasn't going to leave him alone, and he slowly let the towels fall away from his chest. The splotch had darkened to an even angrier pink and covered most of Wilson's upper chest. Wilson looked down at himself and gently touched a finger to the edge of the burn. "Not too bad," he said quietly.

House leaned forward to take his own look. "That's gotta hurt," he said and winced at a few small white blisters beginning to form in the middle of Wilson's chest. "Looks like second-degree. Chase better be bringing some burn cream."

Wilson turned his attention to the blisters, then shrugged, pulling the towels up to cover his chest again. "I'll carry it as a badge of your regard for me."

"It was an accident," House growled.

"I know," Wilson said soothingly. After a moment he expelled a stoic little sigh. "You know, if you wanted to get a look at a nice chest, you really should have scalded Cuddy."

* * *

  


"Now that's a shame," Wilson sighed. He rubbed the center of his chest absentmindedly.

"What's shameful about it?" House asked, glancing over at Wilson, who was sitting next to him on his couch. "Leave it be."

"It's been two days; it shouldn't still itch," Wilson said with an uncharacteristic whine. He gestured half-heartedly at the television. They were watching one of House's many _Girls Gone Wild_-esque DVDs.

House followed Wilson's gesture. "Those are D-cups, at least."

"But that canyon between them just isn't natural. Nothing more shameful than a bad breast job." Wilson shook his head.

"Who cares? They're _breasts_. Men don't see them often enough to be picky."

Wilson scoffed. "Speak for yourself. Now, there. That's what I'm talking about."

"That's barely a handful."

"Ah, but they're perky."

It was House's turn to scoff.

"They'll stay that way, too. They'll still be fantastic when she's forty."

"Again, _who cares_? Despite what your wives told you, Jimmy, size does matter. Now _those_ are fantastic."

"_Those_ are cantaloupes, not breasts. And look at that sternum. It's like a cheese grater. Who wants to nuzzle that?"

House snorted. He had to agree; that sternum was not appealing in the least. Damn Wilson for making him pay attention to irrelevant details. "I need beer. You?"

"Sure."

House's cane was nestled between the couch cushions. He grabbed the shaft as he dropped his feet to the floor. As he tried to shift the cane, the rubber tip caught somewhere underneath the coffee table, and he tugged to get it free. With a little _pop_, the tip came off the end of the cane, and the cane flew up and back. The rounded part of the handle hit Wilson just below his left eye.

Wilson's head rocked backward, and he only had breath for a startled "Oh!"

"Fuck!" House shouted and levered himself to his feet. He leaned over Wilson, who had clapped a hand to his face. "You okay?"

Wilson looked up at him with one eye. "Oh, my eye!" he cried dramatically.

House straightened up with a sigh. He hoped it didn't give away how relieved he was. "You're fine, if you can quote bad movies at me." He started to hobble toward the kitchen, his cane and its rubber tip forgotten under the coffee table.

"Is my eyeball squishing out between my fingers?" Wilson called after him.

House returned to the living room and dropped a bag of frozen peas and a thin towel in Wilson's lap. He settled next to Wilson again as Wilson wrapped the towel around the peas. Wilson's cheek was already darkening and swelling. "That'll be a great shiner. You can tell Cuddy you got into a bar fight."

Wilson leaned his head back against the cushions and gently pressed the bundle to his face. "I'm just surprised you _have_ frozen vegetables."

"Cheaper than ice packs."

"How _old_ are these peas?"

"You don't want to know."

* * *

  


"House, we've been over this. I'm not your drug mule anymore."

"Damn it, Wilson, I'm not asking you to write me a scrip. It's _already there_, courtesy of my prescribing physician. Just pick it up and bring it over here."

"Why call me?"

"Because the pharmacy won't deliver it and—" House tried to hide his desperation, "—and I can't come get it."

Wilson's voice immediately softened. "Bad day?"

"Yeah," House replied, and he hated that he couldn't keep the shake out of his voice. "I think the threatening to chew my ankle off was what finally convinced her I needed a supplemental kit."

"Bone saw's better. Chewing would leave you septic."

"She didn't like the image of me doing it right outside her office door."

"Hang in there. I should be there in less than half an hour."

House hung up the phone with a frustrated sigh and resumed his measured pacing of the hallway. He hadn't slept in two days. Sitting down sent bolts of pain into his lower back and lying down set his whole right side to screaming. There wasn't enough Vicodin in the world to beat back the pain on days like this, and he loathed having to talk about it and ask for relief, but House wasn't about to keep morphine in the apartment again. He had learned one lesson from his time on Tritter's Most Wanted—he could only get away with what Cuddy and Wilson could reasonably explain. And no one could reasonably explain morphine without a prescription.

The knowledge that the meds were on their way allowed House to relax a little into his pacing and blessedly ignore the clock for once. He was startled by Wilson's knock, and as he made his way to the door, he glanced around the apartment. He didn't remember making such a mess in the past two days, but he knew he didn't want Wilson to see it. All he really wanted was his first dose and some sleep; the last thing he needed was Wilson cleaning. He opened the door just far enough to be polite.

"Took you long—" Wilson glanced up and saw House, "—wow, you look like shit."

House leaned on the doorframe with his shoulder and held out a hand. He was too tired to make any smart remarks, even though Wilson's healing black eye didn't make him look much better. "Thanks."

Wilson held up the white paper bag. "You didn't tell me I was going to be picking up morphine," he said quietly.

"Premeasured doses, _by prescription_, for rainy days only," House said sourly. "Today it's a fucking thunderstorm, so give."

Wilson held up his free hand in a placating gesture as he handed over the bag. "I just would appreciate a heads-up, is all." House set the bag on the table next to the door as Wilson grabbed the doorjamb and leaned on it, trying to see around House and into the apartment. "Can I...come in? You need anything else?"

House, one hand on the door handle, turned back to Wilson. "I have no interest in entertaining you; I'm going to sleep. I'll be fine. See you tomorrow."

Wilson looked concerned and like he was about to say something, but he nodded. "Okay."

He hadn't yet pulled his fingers off the doorjamb when House started to slam the door shut.

The door bounced; Wilson grunted and inhaled sharply. House turned back to see Wilson cradling his hand. Wilson looked up at him with startled, tear-filled eyes. "Damn, that _hurts_."

House narrowed his eyes and jutted out his chin. "You shouldn't have left your fingers where they'd get _caught_." As Wilson looked at him incredulously, House took a shaky step, then slumped against the door. Quietly, he said, "Get Foreman to look at it. I can't—" he met Wilson's eyes, willing him to see he was sorry but frankly, broken fingers would be a welcome variation on what he was feeling, "—I can't help you," he half-whispered.

He closed the door on Wilson's soft, "It's all right, House."

* * *

  


"It's not melioidosis," Cameron huffed as she struggled to keep up behind House and Wilson.

"She's covered with pustules," House growled back.

"And she spent a year in Malaysia," Chase chimed in.

"But her eyes are tearing so much she looks like she's crying," Foreman said. "And the nurses had to turn the lights out in her room. That's not melioidosis."

"Then there's obviously something she didn't tell us the first five times you talked to her." The whole group moved to one side of the hallway to move around a gurney and a knot of people. "What are you missing?" House yelled at his team, half-turning as he walked. With his next stride he turned forward and leaned sideways, bumping Wilson's shoulder, hard.

Wilson stumbled to the side and would have righted himself with another step, if not for his left foot disappearing over the top edge of the stairs. With a yelp and a flutter of lab coat, Wilson disappeared, too.

House reached after Wilson with his left hand and felt a ghost of fabric between his fingers. He stood at the top of the stairs, hearing shrieks from the hallway behind him and sickening _thump_s and a sharp _crack_ below him, but he was barely aware of his team rushing past him and after Wilson. Chase and Cameron leaned over Wilson as Foreman continued down the stairs to find more help.

"Jesus Christ, are you _trying_ to kill him?" Cameron screamed up at him.

The only coherent thought in House's head escaped through his lips. "I thought you were an atheist."

* * *

  


"I want to admit him," Foreman told Cuddy. The entire Diagnostics department was camped out in her office; they were all a bit rattled after watching Wilson's nasty tumble down the stairs.

"He doesn't need to be admitted," House snapped. "Bandage him up; he'll be fine."

"The man has a Grade III concussion," Foreman snapped back. "He needs to be monitored."

House bounced his cane on the floor. "I'll monitor him. I'm taking him home."

"Like he's safe with you," Chase muttered.

Everyone in the room turned to Chase. "What?" House asked, low and dangerous.

Chase fidgeted in his chair. "Well, you've obviously got it in for him. A week ago you scalded him with coffee, then he shows up with a black eye—"

"And two broken fingers," Foreman broke in.

"He told me the black eye was an accident involving your cane," Chase continued, using his fingers to air-quote around _accident_.

"Told me he caught his fingers in a car door," Foreman added, crossing his arms over his chest. Cuddy's gaze bounced among the fellows like she was watching a hockey game.

"And then you shoved him down the stairs!" Cameron said loudly from her spot on the couch.

"Oh, _come on_!" House shouted. "This is ridiculous. Cuddy," he turned to her, hands outspread. "Wilson is my friend."

Cuddy also crossed her arms. "I know how you treat your friends."

"I am not carrying out some kind of vendetta against _Wilson_!"

"Maybe it's subconscious," Cameron suggested. "Revenge for his betrayal."

"Now that's a load of shrink-wrapped bullshit," House replied. "Wilson didn't betray me." When he got no response but four skeptical faces, he pulled in a breath and continued, "Well, okay, maybe I thought he did _at the time_ but that was months ago. We're past that, we're hunky-dory best-friends-forever, and I have no subconscious death wish for Wilson." He glared at his fellows.

"You wouldn't know your subconscious if it bit you on the ass," Foreman scoffed.

"Or Wilson's ass, apparently," Chase said, earning himself another glare.

Cuddy turned to Foreman. "Admit him." Foreman nodded and left.

Before House could open his mouth to protest, Cuddy turned back to him and said, "And _you_ are to go home. Do not pass Wilson's room, do not collect two hundred dollars."

"Cuddy—"

"No, House. Maybe they're right, maybe not. Maybe you're just bad luck. But right now, Wilson is not safe with you. Don't make me post security outside his room." She turned to Cameron. "Diagnostics has a patient, as I recall." Cameron nodded and hurried out, glancing worriedly at House, who was standing slouched over his cane.

"Go home, House," she said gently.

House glanced up, then back to the floor. He asked softly, "My office OK?"

Cuddy sighed and rubbed her forehead. "As long as you stay there." House nodded, then turned and hobbled out.

As the second set of doors closed behind him, Cuddy turned to Chase. "Find Foreman. Maternity's having a slow night."

* * *

  


House sat in his yellow chair, feet up on the ottoman, and passed his cane back and forth between his knees. His right thigh pulsed gently with a dull, crawling ache, just enough to remind him it was there.

Cameron had finally discovered that their patient was a volunteer with the Humane Society, and House discovered why all their previous diagnoses had been wrong. They'd been looking for a _human_ infection, silly them, when all along the patient had an _equine_ infection: she'd picked up glanders disease while caring for a pair of very sick horses. So she was doped to the gills, and all that was left was waiting to see whether she'd be one of the fifty percent who survived. House hated waiting.

Cameron and Foreman had gone home for the night; the hospital was quiet outside the darkened office. No fellows to torment, no patient to diagnose, no leg pain to fight; House had no distractions left.

Snippets of voices echoed in House's thoughts: _"Ow ow ow." "Wilson is not safe with you." "It was an accident." "You've obviously got it in for him." "I can't help you." **"Are you**_** trying_ to kill him?"_**

This last made House drop his feet to the floor and lean his chin on his cane. Wilson _had_ been looking more and more like a victim of domestic abuse: a limp, a black eye, taped fingers. Now a concussion, a dislocated shoulder, and a fractured clavicle from a trip down the stairs. But they were _accidents_. House had never meant to hurt Wilson, and if Cuddy couldn't see that, well.

Screw her. Screw all of them. He wasn't about to sit here, _obeying_ Cuddy's 'restraining order.' He wasn't about to let Cameron look at him like he was some kind of lowlife abuser. House stood up and started for the door, ready to track down Wilson and sit by his bedside, like a _friend_.

As his hand closed over the door handle, a little voice in the back of his head asked, _What if they're right?_

House felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. They weren't right. Not about this.

_Chase has been right before._

A quick image of House beating the brown-haired source of that nagging little voice with his cane; a flash of Chase falling to the floor in front of him.

_Chase was right once before, and you missed it._

The breath left his lungs in a rush. All of Wilson's injuries were his fault. That was evidence he couldn't refute.

But they were accidents.

_Were they? Accidental?_

House stood, head bowed, leaning hard on his cane and his other hand on the door handle. The industrial-grey carpet offered no comfort and no answers.

Suddenly frowning, House lurched over to his desk and rummaged around in a drawer until he found a pair of silver markers. Slipping the markers in his pocket, he headed back to the door.

He needed to see the damage he'd done, needed to figure out why. He needed to find Wilson.

* * *

  


The she-devil had certainly earned her nickname. House had stalked the near-empty hallways for over an hour with no sign of Wilson. A quick stop back at Diagnostics to hack into the computer system had also yielded nothing—Cuddy was obviously a step ahead of him there, too, by either keeping Wilson out of the computer system altogether or admitting him under a false name.

He raided the Obstetrics lounge; not only did they provide comfortable chairs in which to think but the refrigerator was among the best-stocked in the hospital. He was slouched deeply into one of the chairs, silently eating pudding in the dark, when the door opened and one small lamp flicked on. Behind him, two sets of footsteps headed for the coffee machine. House slouched further into the chair and, with an effort, pulled his feet closer.

"I heard Desi say she just made a fresh pot," a female voice said. "Bingo." A chuckle from a different voice, hard to tell if it was a man or woman. Then soft clinks from cups, followed by the clank of the pot being removed from the machine.

"It's nice to have you right here," the female voice said over the sound of pouring coffee. "NICU's short-staffed tonight, and the Hawkins birth is high-risk." A clank, the coffeepot being returned to the machine, and then _tink tink tink_: a stirring spoon. "Dawson's great, but she'll have her hands full with mom, I think. We might need you for the baby." Footsteps, retreating, then the door opened and the light flicked off.

"Well, I'm right down the hall if you need me..." a male voice responded, fading as the door swung shut behind them. An _Australian_ voice.

House was out of the chair and to the door before it had closed all the way, and he used the tip of his cane to keep the door from closing completely. He peeked out through the crack to see Chase and a nurse walking down the hall. The nurse turned to the nursing station, and Chase continued down the hall and turned the corner.

There was only one reason for Chase to be wandering around the maternity ward.

House smiled and murmured, "Nice try, you succubus."

* * *

  


Knowing where to direct the search would make all the difference. A quick hobble back to Diagnostics to again search the admission records revealed Maternity was having a relatively slow night; only four rooms were occupied. Poor Sadie Hawkins was not only having a difficult birth; House hoped she wouldn't saddle her child with a similarly unfortunate name. Miranda Antony and AmyLynn Johnson were likewise not the droids he was searching for. House let out a low chuckle when he saw the last name on the list, jumping out at him like a beacon. Wilson had obviously had some influence regarding his alias.

Madeline Elster.

* * *

  


Barreling out of the elevators was generally the preferred method of approaching patient rooms, but this time he had a feeling that 'full steam ahead' would not get him to his destination. Which was all right, House thought as he carefully made his way down the stairs. After all, he held a brown belt in sneaking in addition to his black belts in deviousness, manipulation, and general assholery. When he finally reached the bottom step, he had to admit the cane prevented black-belt-level sneaking.

He pulled the door to the stairs open slightly, looking for any hostiles lying in wait on the path to Wilson's room. The only nurse in sight was busy playing solitaire at the nurses' pod, her back to House. He had a clear line of sight to Wilson's door, and he waited.

Paging Chase to the NICU wouldn't have bought him more than ten minutes. Fortunately for House, fate seemed to agree that he belonged in Wilson's room; House suddenly became aware of more than one ambulance siren approaching the hospital. His pager vibrated insistently at his hip, and he leaned against the door to free his hand to check it.

House had to stifle a cheer when he saw the general call to the ER flashing on the small screen. By rights, he _shouldn't_ have been elated about a 15-car pileup, but he couldn't help himself as he saw Chase scurry out of Wilson's room and head straight for—

Oh, _shit_. Chase was headed for the stairs.

House had no time. He glanced longingly up the stairs; no way. The landing had no other doors, no furniture, no potted plants to hide behind. In a move born of desperation, House squeezed himself into the corner just before Chase burst through the door.

House sucked in his breath as the door swung into his chest and sandwiched him against the wall. He felt ridiculous, 'hiding' in plain sight like this, and looked helplessly up at the ceiling. What kind of idiot hides _behind the door_?

As the door swung closed and Chase's footsteps faded down the stairs, House let out his breath in a long sigh of relief. He quickly stepped around and opened the door, hurrying over to Wilson's room before the nurse finished her solitaire game.

* * *

  


Wilson's room was mostly dark, lit by only the lamp above the bed, and the blinds were thankfully already closed. House slid the door closed behind him and crossed to stand at the foot of the bed.

Asleep, Wilson looked disturbingly pale and fragile in the sallow light from the lamp. His dark hair and bruises contrasted sharply with the gown, the sheets, the rest of him. His first black eye was fading, but now the other eye was swollen and dark, and an angry black traced along the base of his neck where his right clavicle was broken. His right arm was strapped securely across his ribs. His left hand was flung out, away from his body, the splints on two fingers shining brightly against the bruising that traced up the back of his hand to his wrist. One of his feet was propped on a pillow under the blankets. House didn't want to know where else dark bruises were blooming as a result of Wilson's sudden acquaintance with the stairs.

He shifted his weight against the cane and realized he had moved several feet back from the bed. Two more steps, and he landed heavily in the recliner on the other side of the room from the bed. A safe distance.

House wasn't sure how long he watched the rise and fall of Wilson's chest.

* * *

  


House was about to turn on the bathroom light when he heard the door to the room slide open. He pulled his blazer tightly around him and retreated farther into the dark bathroom, listening as Chase gently roused Wilson.

"Sorry," Chase said quietly. "Time for your neuro check, and I'll let you go back to sleep."

"You're just doing your job," Wilson mumbled back.

House leaned against the wall and listened as Chase ran through the standard questions and Wilson half-whispered his answers. As they were finishing up, Wilson said, "What's going on? You look...wired."

"Big night in the ER," Chase replied. "Fifteen-car pileup, some secondary accidents from the rubberneckers. They let me out to come check on you, but I've got to get back."

"Second wave coming in?" Wilson asked. "The ones they had to cut out of their cars?"

"Any minute," Chase answered from somewhere near the door. "I'll make sure somebody comes for your next check, if I can't." The door slid open and closed.

House shifted slightly against the wall. He desperately wanted to sit down, to pee, to pop a Vicodin. All of which would alert the now-awake Wilson to his presence, and of all the things House wanted, he knew he _didn't_ want Wilson to know he was there just yet. So he listened as Wilson toyed with the controls on the bed, the monitor lines, the velcro on his shoulder strap.

Wilson grunted and sighed as he tried to get comfortable. As the rustling of the sheets stilled, Wilson muttered, "You're getting old, House."

House started against the wall and very nearly dropped his cane.

"You should have found me by now," Wilson slurred, oblivious and sleepy. "You'd laugh, but I kinda wish you were here...Sorry I wasn't..."

* * *

  


Wilson's room had no whiteboard, but the pair of windows that made up the far corner of the room worked just as well. Better, even, because the apex of the corner formed a natural dividing line. House had covered the left window with a chronology of Wilson's injuries and had written just one word on the right window: **ACCIDENTS?**

House tapped the cap of the marker against his lips as the dark glass stared back at him. If he shifted just a little, he would be able to see Wilson's sleeping form reflected in the window. He shifted in the other direction and started to write.

When he finished, the right window was covered in far-less-organized text than the list on the left window.

  * _Tuesday - cane  
_
    * _bruised right foot_
  * _Thursday - coffee  
_
    * _scalded chest_
  * _Saturday - cane  
_
    * _black eye_
  * _Monday - door  
_
    * _broken fingers_
  * _Wednesday - stairs  
_
    * _concussion_
    * _broken clavicle_
    * _dislocated shoulder_
    * _sprained ankle?_

|  _'sympathy' limping_ _  
Voldemort  
liver failure people over pills?  
irrelevant details  
_ _everybody lies ~~believe what you want~~_   
_drug mule  
caught_ _ rainy day_   
_pain = stupid decisions  
pain = accidents? CIPA  
melioidosis  
betrayal? ketamine Addison's  
Icarus** Judas** Zebalusky  
Who would want to hurt you?~~  
~~tribe got your answer  
~~seep into your subconscious~~_ _ puppies_ _  
road to hell~~  
~~_  
---|---  
  


He stepped back and looked over the silver letters, tilting his head to make out some of the writing. House narrowed his eyes and kept searching for some kind of pattern.

* * *

  


He was standing in front of the windows, slowly twirling his cane, when he heard Wilson whisper behind him.

"Figure it out yet?"

House managed not to jump and turned as nonchalantly as he could. Wilson was turned slightly, his eyes barely open, a little half-smile on his face.

"Hey," House said.

"You found me," Wilson murmured.

House looked down at the floor. "Yeah. You left me an obvious clue."

"Apparently Foreman's not a Hitchcock fan."

"I'm disappointed in Cuddy, though," House replied with a low chuckle. He rubbed at his right hip and turned back to the window. "So how's the bed?"

Wilson stretched his shoulders back and inhaled deeply, rousing himself out of sleepiness. "Pregnant women get all the luxuries."

"Seriously?" House shifted his gaze to the floor.

"Nah. The room's a little nicer, though." Wilson pulled at the velcro strap again and groaned.

"You okay?" House asked without turning around. He shifted his weight and looked at Wilson's reflection in the glass. "Need more meds?"

"That'd be nice," Wilson mumbled. "I didn't think it was _possible _for my hair to hurt."

House turned and waved at Wilson's bed with his cane before heading for the bathroom. "Get a buxom nurse to give you something."

"You're _hiding_?" Wilson's soft voice stopped him.

"I'm not supposed to be here, remember? Didn't Cuddy explain that?"

"Yeah." Wilson shifted his feet under the blankets. "They think you've been hurting me on purpose."

House hunched his shoulders and leaned harder on his cane. He glanced at the doorway to the dark bathroom and back to his sneakers. "And you?"

"Would I have left you such an obvious clue if I did?" Wilson tapped his finger splints against the bed rail. "I'd rather not deal with a nurse. Get over here."

House winced, but didn't move. His intestines curled unpleasantly with the quick vision of a massive air bubble in Wilson's IV. He scuffed his right toe against the floor. "I can't."

"You think they're right? Worried you'll beat me with your cane while I'm lying here in my hospital bed?"

"I put you there, didn't I?" House asked, although his question was directed more at the tiles under his feet than at Wilson.

Again the tapping splints against the bed rails, accompanied by a little sigh. "Yes, House. My brain feels like it's going to fall out of my head because of you. My ankle is throbbing because of you. I have only three useful fingers because of you. I think the least you can do is get me some painkillers."

House shook his head, once, and curled his shoulders in even further. It was the most movement he could seem to manage. "If I'm wrong—"

"Which is very unlike you."

"—then I'm not going to quit. You can't take much more."

"You're not going to hurt me. Come here."

House didn't move.

Wilson let out one of his more exasperated sighs. "House, come _here_."

Slowly, House managed to shuffle the few feet to the bed. "Wilson—"

"Just hand me that cup and the water," Wilson cut him off.

House saw the flash of silver as Wilson pointed with his splinted fingers at the bedside table. Leaning his cane against the bed, House leaned his thigh next to it as he gingerly placed first the Dixie cup and then the water in Wilson's hand. He didn't look at Wilson's battered face until he'd settled himself into the plastic chair next to the bed.

Wilson had leaned his head and shoulders back into the pillows and was half-smiling from behind his bruises. "So what's the verdict, Doctor? Accidents? Still pissed at me?"

"I told _them_, I'm not pissed at you. I'm over it."

"Over what?" Wilson had lost his half-smile and now looked serious, intent.

House grabbed his cane away from the bed and rolled the shaft between his palms. "The . . . Tritter thing."

"I betrayed you."

"Yes. No!" House let out a frustrated snort and scrubbed at his chin with one hand. "Maybe I thought you did, but I had no right to blame you. I told you that."

Wilson's eyes glittered, his relaxed posture against the pillows at odds with the expression on his face. "What about Christmas Eve?"

"What about it?" House snapped.

"I left you."

"You surprised me. And I—" House shifted, picked at a nonexistent string on his jeans. "I deserved that. You were right to walk away."

"What about the ketamine? The forged prescriptions?" Wilson pressed, quiet but relentless.

House waved dismissively, irritated. "Done and gone. In the past. Not relevant."

"They're on the window. And you never answered my question."

"What question?"

Wilson waited until House completed his visual survey of the room and met his gaze again. "Why _my_ pad?"

House quickly looked at the wall behind Wilson's head. "I answered that."

"No, you didn't. We got distracted by your patient." Wilson sighed. "I don't think you even know."

"But you do," House growled. "As I recall, you thought you did then, too." House gripped the cane tighter and started bouncing it against the floor.

Wilson didn't move. "Sometimes it's easy to forget that I can hurt you. And I did, when I didn't believe you about the pain coming back."

"You _pissed me off_. You didn't hurt me."

"Anger's a symptom of pain, House. You can admit it or you can pretend and we'll see what my x-rays look like next time."

"Or the autopsy report," House snarled, trying to keep himself angry. It was better than the alternative.

Wilson continued, quietly laying out his wrongs like a surgeon setting out his scalpels. "I lied to you. Tried to make you humble with the worst possible timing."

House snorted. Wilson was making the anger easy, especially if House didn't look at how he seemed to shrink into the mattress as the list grew.

"I left you for Grace. I left you to live in a hotel. I left you in a vomit puddle on your floor. I left you with no way of dealing when the ketamine failed."

House slumped in his chair as the anger left him. He looked at Wilson, who was himself crumpled in a half-sitting position. He didn't want Wilson to know how he felt, but he couldn't look away.

Finally House muttered, "You don't leave. Everybody else, maybe. Not you."

Wilson blinked, slowly. "Except I did," he said softly. "I think—" he rubbed at his eyes with his left thumb, "—I think you've been trying to tell me how much that hurt."

* * *

  


Chase rounded the corner of the maternity desk to see House hunched over his cane in the middle of Wilson's room. _Fuck!_ His stride hitched oddly as he hesitated, then sped up.

He was only two steps closer to the room when he saw the flash of Wilson's splinted fingers waving, tapping against the bed rails, beckoning House closer.

House seemed to hunch farther over the cane. His hesitation made Chase step back and around the desk again. Chase had so rarely seen House hesitate, about anything; he couldn't resist indulging his curiosity. He watched as House eventually settled himself in the chair next to the bed.

Chase couldn't see Wilson's face, but he had a clear view of House. He also had a clear view of the window where House had listed all of Wilson's injuries, which seemed to include more injuries than Chase had initially listed. He shook his head—trust House to try a differential on his own psychology.

His attention was drawn back to House when the man shifted in his chair and started bouncing his cane on the floor. House looked angry, mostly, but he didn't look like he really meant it. Chase had been on the receiving end of House's real wrath often enough to know the difference.

Chase was surprised when House's shoulders slumped and his face crumpled, revealing something Chase had never seen. He looked . . . defeated. Alone. Chase shifted his feet and glanced away, embarrassed, his curiosity no longer enough to keep him watching.

When he glanced back into the room, House was leaning forward in his chair, listening intently. Wilson's hand waved briefly in the air, and House smiled, a hesitant, almost _shy_ smile. Chase turned away then, deciding that Wilson didn't really need the next neuro check. Not from him, at least.

House had it covered.


End file.
